Words on the St Magnus Way
by Yvonne Gray (a work in progress)
Words from a yellow post-it note ...
Sun on seagull
Soaring
Words from A4 paper, folded ...
Islands of green and blue
silent but never still
a land scattered with rainbows
Beauty, life.
A wave
A smiling face
Beauty, life.
Tears
A broken heart
Beauty, life.
A cool breeze
on my face
Beauty, life.
Green islands, blue skies
A crashing wave ...
Journey to Egilsay, Tuesday 3 November
The ferry forges on for Egilsay –
Church island of the Celts
or to the Norsemen
the island of Egil.
Farm land.
A stronghold.
A Bishop’s estate.
A pilgrim island
with a kirk high on its ridge
seen for miles
across the bays and sounds.
A meeting point.
Neutral ground.
A place of hope
where hope died –
and where hope
grew green again.
The tut of the stonechat
The murmured doubt of the outcome.
The rasp of the corncrake.
Blade drawn.
The axe falls.
---
We walk from the pier
to the far shore.
Mae Banks
a slope by the meadow
And a wave swells
blue-green glass that holds
two curious seals suspended –
then shatters like crystal.
Footprints on the shore.
Faces you sculpted in the sand.
Children – siblings. At the end
of this day ballots will be counted.
What will they mean for our children,
our parents? Our friends, our cousins?
The sick and the frail
and the disenfranchised?
Cousins. What whisperings drove
Magnus and Hakon
Apart? What clouds swelled
like field mushrooms
against the blue of the sky?
What sails swept in
from the horizon and stole
the warmth from the spring air?
Hope dashed like a bird on stone.
Perhaps it was here Magnus
prayed and considered – saw perhaps
the slow repeated tracks of limpets
on the rocks and wondered why
he should hold fast to this world
if it brought conflict and bloodshed
hardship and loss – or if all he need do was let go ...
Ships on the horizon.
The hours of his life played out.
Perhaps – and not for the first time –
he thought I have no quarrel with any man here ...
and so shaped minds
gently
by his conceding
of power.
And now in November a rainbow –
and perhaps that April there appeared
in the sky an airy hull –
bright strakes.
By Manse Loch –
the loch of the dwelling or the Loch of Magnus?
We dip our hands in water
and draw bright droplets through the air.
Words from the torn margin of a TV licence form ...
A spring cool, clear
and sparking
still flows from that time on Egilsay.
Words on 2 lined pages from a small spiral-bound notebook ...
I thought about my late father ...
good, honest, kind, caring,
hard working and loving.
He guided me at times
when I didn’t realise
I needed guidance,
good, honest, kind, caring.
He guided me at times
without me knowing.
hard working and loving.
Only looking back
can I now see those moments.
Words from a page torn from a small lined notebook ...
In waves of unrest
I am grateful for words
that can be grasped for
in the dark.
Like tiny anchors
digging into the ocean floor.
Orkneyinga
Let me bury my son, Thora said.
At Gurness we watch
before setting out.
Gannets gleam
arrows fletched
that rain on the Sound.
Journey to Birsay
Who comes in that ship
its sail swelling above the sound?
Its thafts are filled with silent men.
Their burden is heavy –
one who is no longer there.
Sail lowered they climb ashore
on a greening headland.
Among litter of rock a wide stone
where for a time they rest their burden –
the man they did not save.
Past empty crofts
a decaying chapel, the fallen brochs
they travel on, the weight of stone
in their hearts, the burden
of past and present, the time still to come.
By the wheelan stane in Swanney
they glance up at Erne Tower.
Vast wings spread and eagle eyes
light on their burden –
the man who gave up power for peace.
There’s talk of change in the divided land.
One tells of an island no ship can reach
that shimmers above the horizon.
Together they raise their burden –
Lighter now – and trudge on to Birsay.
On a margin torn from the bottom of a printed sheet ...
... the past and the future ...
for the future we need peace and humility –
the end of greed.
